


Jaharland

by MsMxyzptlk



Category: Jahar Tsarnaev
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 14:33:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsMxyzptlk/pseuds/MsMxyzptlk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>In this story Jahar is in his early twenties, and thus old enough to drink wine legally.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Jaharland

**Author's Note:**

> In this story Jahar is in his early twenties, and thus old enough to drink wine legally.

My day began with my jumping out of bed in the steely light just before the dawn. I put my bare feet into dainty pink ballet slippers and covered myself with a robe before I entered the kitchen.

I turned on a light and started the stovetop heating. I added water and coffee to the Braun machine, then opened the refrigerator. Butter, three eggs, shredded cheese, fresh spinach leaves – all of which went into a cast-iron skillet. 

I heard the bathroom door creak. I was right on schedule. 

I watched the Braun as the contents of the skillet turned into an opaque and bubbly circle. With a spatula, I folded the circle in half. My eyes fell on the breadbox, and it reminded me of the missing piece of the puzzle. 

Seconds later, two slices of thick white bread were browning in the toaster oven. I turned off the heat under the skillet and brought down a large plate, a small plate, and a large mug from the cupboard. 

The omelet, toast (buttered, of course) and coffee (black, with sugar) were on the table by the time my husband entered the kitchen, wearing a long-sleeved black T-shirt, camouflage pants, and heavy brown boots. 

“Good morning, Jahar.” I went to him and gave him a warm kiss on the lips. 

“Good morning.” He sniffed the air. “Man, it smells nice in here. I’ll never get tired of fresh-cooked breakfast, girl.” 

“It’s no problem.” 

Jahar sat down to breakfast as I made my own – Cheerios with milk, a tiny glass of orange juice, my own mug of coffee. I didn’t mind – I liked cereal, anyway, and it was so easy and quick. 

Our conversation at the table was mild. I asked him what he wanted for dinner. He said that he was ready for a nice bowl of lamb plov, served with pinot noir. It was Friday, the end of the work week, and he was ready, so ready, to wind down. He also hinted that it was a good time for a bath. 

I listened patiently and attentively. When his plates and cup were empty, I collected them and placed them in the dishwasher. He wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin I had provided, stood up, and went to the front door. 

He put on a belt which held a brutal-looking hunting knife. On top of that, he donned a thick jacket which matched the camo of his pants and a camo knit cap which covered his distinctive dark curly hair. He picked up an olive-green messenger bag and got from the closet the last of his necessities – an assault rifle which he slung over his back. Where he was going, it was pointless to conceal weapons. 

The sound of the SUV rolling up to the door came at its usual time. I wrapped my arms around Jahar. 

“I love you, Jahar.” I pressed my head against his breastbone, getting a hint of his heart beating. “Come home to me.” 

“I love you, too, baby.” He lifted my chin with his fingers and touched his lips to mine. “I promise I will.” 

How many times had we spoken these words to each other? How many times had he kept his promise? 

Always...though he came in late several times, and once he came in _very_ late...but, he _did_ come home. 

* * *

When I heard the SUV drive away (superstitiously, I never actually watched it go), I went to the bedroom and peeled the sheets, pillowcases, and comforter off the bed. 

If Jahar wanted a bath tonight, he should have a clean bed to come into as well. 

I dropped my load in the tiny laundry room at the back of the house. I lifted the bottle of detergent. Still halfway full, so that was good. 

I returned to the kitchen and made a thorough inventory of our food supply, then called the supermarket in the town fifteen miles away. The items I needed for the afternoon included carrots, a boneless leg of lamb, and two bottles of pinot noir. I put in my order, and knew it would be at the door within the hour. 

I could have driven to town on my own, but Jahar didn’t like the idea. With the job he had, he didn’t want me leaving the house without him by my side. 

I went back to the bedroom and changed from pajamas to yoga crop pants, camisole, and walking shoes. Back in the living room, I put a DVD in the player – an hour-long simulated walk on the hiking paths of Hawaii. It was a gentle but effective workout, especially when I carried small dumbbells. 

In the middle of the workout, the grocery delivery arrived. I took the bags from the delivery guy and tipped him with cash, because we paid with a credit card online. I put the lamb and the carrots in the refrigerator and the wine bottles in an upright rack. 

When I was finally done with my “walk,” I took a shower. I checked my body all over, removing every unwanted hair with razor or tweezers. This was a ritual I kept to myself. As far as Jahar was concerned, my underarms and legs were born hairless and would always remain so. 

I toweled myself off, then covered my skin with rose-scented lotion so it would be soft and smooth...soft and smooth enough to entice Jahar’s fingers. 

When I deemed myself sufficiently soft and smooth, I picked out my clothes for the day...a burgundy velvet dress with three-quarter sleeves, a dress which clung tightly to the curves of my breasts and buttocks. Underneath, I wore a dark blue satin push-up bra and matching panties. I added a long gold chain with an open, ruby-encrusted heart charm and matching earrings. 

I knew I could choose a loose-fitting shirt and sweatpants, and Jahar wouldn’t _say_ he minded...but I knew that he preferred to see me in dresses, and he liked to see the shape of my body. Why not make this small accommodation, if it would please him so? 

Out of the bathroom now. Back into the laundry room, to start the washing of the sheets and comforter. The comforter would have to be washed separately because it was so big. 

Before I forgot, I opened a closet and brought out a large round pewter tray, on which stood three thick, pure white pillar candles of various heights. They had been used, but not to the point where drops were coming down the sides. I went to the bedroom and replaced one of the bedside lamps with this tray. The events upcoming required candlelight. 

* * *

What an exhausting-sounding day – and it wasn’t even noon yet. 

Why did I go through this, day after day, week after week? 

Long story short – _he_ deserved it. 

Our town had three kinds of men: the men who did the regular, necessary tasks of life – the doctors and the teachers, the policemen and the firefighters, the merchants and the artists and the accountants and the stay-at-home fathers and everyone in between. 

The men who did nothing – the layabouts and the drifters and the jailbirds. The men who couldn’t do anything – the elderly and the disabled and the mentally ill. Fortunately, these men were few. 

And then, we had the patrollers. Those who protected the town against the monsters in the woods. The monsters who seeped in though the fourth dimension to feed on and torment us. 

The patrollers weren’t _all_ men, mind you, but 95% of them were. It could be said that without the patrollers, all of the other jobs could not exist. 

Scientists were working on the means to close the hole they entered through. In the meantime, we needed people to kill every monster who got into our world. 

Jahar was one of these courageous people. He chose this role, and not just because his older brother did, too. “It’s the most important thing I can do right now,” he had said. “I couldn’t forgive myself if I just sat there when I had the power to do something – to stop these creatures from destroying what we’ve worked so hard for.” These words were the clincher: “Would I be worthy of you if I didn’t go out there?” 

Every time Jahar went out into the world, he put his life – and mental health – on the edge of danger. He saw bloodcurdling scenes of horror, blood, destruction, even death – scenes that all of the counseling in the world could not erase from his mind. 

Sometimes, the horror came after him. The scars on his body were proof...the bullet hole through his right thigh thanks to a monster who’d learned to steal and shoot a gun, the stitches which held his left hand together after another monster had bit into it with powerful jaws. And the scar extending from below his left ear to his collarbone...the result of a monster’s claw going right for his throat, a deep slash which sent his blood flying through the air and – if his mates hadn’t been there to stop the bleeding and call for help – would have killed him within seconds. 

Jahar took on all of the pain and risk and trauma so that I could live a safe, sheltered life at home. His flesh would take the bruises and the bullets and the teeth and the claws before they even came close to me. 

I had one purpose in my life, a purpose which would, now and forever, come first: make sure that our home would be a Jaharland when he was there. 

A place where he wouldn’t have to fear. Or worry. Or feel any kind of stress. 

A place where all good things were his for the asking – and even before the asking. 

A place where the surfaces were soft and pliable – whether it be the cushion on his dining room chair, or the warm water of his bath, or the mattress of our bed. Or my body. 

Ah, yes, _that_ needed to be pliable most of all. 

Even before we got married, I decided I would follow this policy: whenever Jahar asked for sex, whether explicitly with his words or implicitly with his body, my answer was always “yes.” No matter what. 

He could wake me up in the middle of the night, or interrupt me in the middle of writing a poem – hell, he could ask during _that_ time of the month – and yes, I would still say yes. 

When I wanted sex, it was a desire. When he wanted sex, it was nothing less than a need. I remembered reading this on a blog: “A marriage can’t live on romance alone...your husband needs to feel and express love through his penis. When you not only understand but live this basic truth, and let him inside as much as you are able, you will earn his adoration...forever.” 

My body, in other words, was a Jaharland within a Jaharland. And boy, did he love to ride. 

I made it a priority to take care of the physical parts he loved the most – my soft, round breasts, my dense, prominent buttocks, my tender mons covered with fluffy hair that buffered the times when he needed to, as he put it, “go hard.” (I got wet just thinking of him going hard. Or even saying, “Baby, I need to go hard.”) When he was home, all of those would be clean, tender, and above all ready. 

* * * 

I spent the half hour it took for the sheets to go through the wash cycle adding words to a new poem. I had only a few hours free in the day, which I spent either reading or writing poetry, most of which was about love (or in other words, Jahar) and all of which I was not yet ready to show to an audience of more than one. (He’d read them all except the one I was working on now, which started with “I stroke your oil-coated penis with a firm grip as Satie’s _Gymnopédie No. 1_ wafts from the stereo...”.... _that_ one would stay between the two of us.) 

At the moment I couldn’t think of any more to write, I heard the washer stop. I went back to the laundry room, dropped the sheets in the dryer, and stuffed the comforter in the washer. 

I heard today’s mail drop through the slot next to the door. Today, we had no bills – just a handful of holiday catalogs (Wireless, Duluth Trading, Vermont Country Store) and a monthly magazine I looked forward to reading, a magazine that had nothing to do with marriage, domesticity, or writing – in other words, reading that took me away from my regular life. 

I opened a can of lemon seltzer water and sat down to read...my first (and perhaps only) session of pure sitting all day. If it hadn’t been bath night for Jahar, I might have retreated to the tub, but I thought it was decadent to draw two baths in one day. 

Speaking of Jahar...I wondered what he was doing right now. Was he swapping blackly comic stories with his co-patrollers? Was he eating a sandwich and drinking coffee? Was he poised still and silent behind a tree, aiming his weapon? 

My imagination could go further, but I wouldn’t let it. 

Especially since the sheets were now dry and ready to put on the bed. 

I pulled the sheets out of the dryer, dropped them on the bed, stuffed the comforter in the dryer, and then returned to the bedroom to cover the bed. 

I liked this sheet set. It was flannel, imported from Portugal, and was colored cream with dark red stripes. (We also had a similar set with blue stripes that we used in spring and summer.) These sheets were soft and comfy and easy to care for. We had four pillowcases, two standard size and two king size, because Jahar and I believed in maximum comfort for our heads (and they helped make certain, ahem, positions easier). 

I smiled with pride at my handiwork, and realized that I was now hungry. At this time of year, I preferred soups for lunch, and a gift shop in town sold handmade soup mixes which I had stocked up on. A cup of warm whole milk turned one mix into a tasty cream of broccoli soup. 

I often wondered if I should try my hand at crafts, but I knew that was not my greatest gift to the world. We really didn’t need the extra income, and Jahar was proud of the fact that his wife didn’t _have_ to work. At least, not outside the home. 

After I finished my soup, the comforter was ready to come out of the dryer. It was solid maroon; we’d bought it separately from the sheets but they looked good together. I draped it over the bed neatly and folded it down so I could see the pillows.

I looked at the clock. It was time to start preparing the plov. 

I hadn’t been making plov for very long, but already I knew this: it was a process which simply could not be rushed. It wasn’t like boiling the contents of a Top Ramen package and dropping in pieces of fake crab and a few spinach leaves. 

Plov meant time and care. It meant slicing a leg of lamb into small, bite-sized pieces. It meant turning several full-sized carrots into a pile of skinny orange sticks. It meant keeping an eye on both of these, plus basmati rice, inside the largest skillet in the house – to make sure the carrots and the rice didn’t end up too hard or too mushy, to make sure the lamb didn’t end up feeling and smelling like tire rubber. All this, even though I had simplified the original recipe into three basic ingredients, not including oil and spices. 

Making plov was just like tending to a marriage. I also had to keep an eye on Jahar when he was home. Did he keep his head down, indicating that he wanted to be left alone for now? Or did he look at me with wide eyes, silently begging me for tender loving care? Was the hand curling around my waist an invitation to dance vertically...or horizontally? 

Life in Jaharland meant understanding the difference. 

* * * 

Outside, the rumble of an SUV’s engine. 

I tore my attention from the “All Things Considered” broadcast coming from the undercabinet radio in the kitchen. I turned my head towards the door. The world stood still. 

The click of a key shoving into the lock. 

I let out my breath. That sound meant one thing: Jahar was home, and he was able to unlock the door with his own power. 

When he finally opened the door, I was there for him with the hug and the kiss that a hero deserved. 

“You’re back.” Any day was a great day when I could say those words to him. 

“Yup.” He pulled off his knit cap. It had flattened his hair in a most adorable way. I knew it wouldn’t last – Jahar had the kind of hair which curled right back up as soon as it was free – so I gave him another kiss and stroked the flatness while I could. 

“What do you need right now? A pre-dinner glass of wine?” 

“No, just a glass of seltzer water on ice. Thanks.” He took off and hung up his jacket, put his rifle back in the closet, and took off his boots. 

I knew what that meant. A can of plain seltzer water in a tall tumbler over ice...with a lime wedge as garnish. 

I fixed his drink and handed it to him. He smiled at me and leaned back into the couch. 

As I returned to the kitchen, I heard the television come on, and the shuffling of channel after channel. Dry and serious news voices...loud and grating commercial voices...overlapping, argumentative reality-show voices...and then, just what he needed: comical sitcom banter. 

Now, I personally thought that the word “sitcom” could use an extra “h” in a strategic place – but then again, I didn’t have a job fighting and killing hideous monsters. If silly comedy comforted Jahar, I was okay with that. 

“Aw, come on...” Sometimes, Jahar talked back to the TV. “That’s so gay, Cam, even for _you.”_

I resolved to ignore the TV and concentrate on dinner. I lifted the lid off the skillet and stirred. The carrots looked appropriately limp, the rice didn’t lump together, and the lamb smelled like manna. 

Yes, this plov was Jahar-ready. 

I put the lid back on and turned off the heat. I placed the skillet on an unused burner to cool down. 

I took out more formal plates than what we used at breakfast – large white plates with a hand-painted Mediterranean-style pattern on the edges in red, yellow, and green. I also brought down two globe-shaped wineglasses, the ideal shape for red wine, and two white linen napkins. 

I came back to the plov and lifted the lid of the skillet. A white mist poured forth. 

Wait for it... 

Jahar turned his head from the scripted sitcom antics. He smiled. 

“Hmmm...what’s that I smell?” He lifted the remote and turned off the TV – finally! 

“It’s the smell of home, Jahar.” 

He stood up and headed for the table. 

“Damn straight.” He got behind me and kissed the back of my head. “I wanna bite into a juicy tender chunk of lamb...” He gently bit my neck. 

“Oh, _Jahar...”_

Since it was just the two of us, we served ourselves straight from the skillet, lifting the plov onto our plates with a slotted spoon. There was still plenty left; fortunately it kept well in the refrigerator. 

We took our plates to the table. Jahar pulled a bottle of pinot noir from the rack and casually carried it to the table by the neck. He used a bar corkscrew to open it, which required leverage and brute strength. In our house, opening wine bottles was Jahar’s job. 

He poured a tiny bit into his glass and swirled it around, placing his nose in the glass to sense the aroma. He took a sip, let it roll over his tongue, gave a thumbs-up sign and proceeded to fill my glass, then his. He mimicked the wine-pouring ritual we’d experienced at fine restaurants, when the waiter poured a bit for the man of the table first to make sure the wine was good enough for the lady. 

We clinked our glasses together, celebrating the end of the day and the week, and ate our plov. It was as good as I’d hoped it would be – and the proof was in Jahar’s hearty grin, in the way he licked the lamb’s juices off his lips. 

“Thanks, babe. I think Friday night should be plov night from now on.” 

“I like that idea.” 

“But just for us, though. I don’t want to have to shoo the guests away so we can get to dessert...” He raised his eyebrows. “Y’know?” 

“I know, Jahar.” 

He then told me about his (thankfully) uneventful day in the woods. The only living creatures he and his team saw were birds, squirrels, and a lone wolf. 

“That’s a good sign. If the animals are coming back to the woods, that means they’re not afraid. I think we’ve got the monsters on the run. That will buy time for closing the hole.” 

When we had cleaned our plates and drank all the wine in our glasses, I cleared the table and put the dishes in the dishwasher. I also put the rest of the plov in the refrigerator and placed the skillet in the dishwasher, too. I added soap and closed the dishwasher door, then turned it on. The comforting hum filled the kitchen. 

Jahar got out of his seat and headed for the bedroom. He didn’t need to say what for. He was going to undress for his bath. 

I went into the bathroom and plugged in a space heater which sat in the corner. This was the kind of space heater that farmers used when milking cows in the barn; we liked this kind because it forced hot air and did not have scary-looking coils which turned orange. It also turned itself off if it got too hot. (We had one in the bedroom, too, since our central heat only extended to the living/dining area and kitchen). 

I shut the door to keep the heat inside. Now it was time to fill the tub with water. Our tub had separate knobs for hot and cold water, and it was a science to get the ratio just right for Jahar (he preferred his tub water a little hotter than I did). 

I liked to have my tub filled with bubbles, but Jahar didn’t, so I dropped a large round bath fizzy (ordered from an artisan on Etsy) into the tub. I liked to watch the fizzy dissolve into the clear water. 

I opened a small plastic bag which contained the final addition to Jahar’s bath: red rose petals. I had ordered two red roses with today’s groceries. I had silently thanked the roses for their sacrifice before I plucked them apart, telling them that they were going into the tub of a wonderful, worthy man. 

Jahar came into the bathroom, wearing a plush burgundy velour robe that came down to his knees. His legs were bare, and I knew the rest of him was too under the robe. The thought made me shiver with anticipation. 

“Awww, baby.” He looked down at the tub, at the tender rose petals floating like tiny red rafts in the water, and his cheeks rivaled their crimson. “All this – for _me?”_ He tucked his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels like a kid half his age. 

“All this for you.” I kissed his cheek. 

“That bath’s too pretty for my dirty ol’ self.” 

“All the more reason to get in.” 

Jahar smiled in resignation, and took off his robe. 

Now I blushed and lowered my head. Not because of modesty – at this point in our lives, we’d seen every inch of each other there was to see – but because I wanted my experience of his nakedness to be gradual. 

He turned to hang his robe on the hook on the bathroom door. I kept my eyes on his white, muscular shoulders as he turned back to me and slid one foot into the tub. He lifted it up slightly, then back down slowly. He did the same with the other foot. The fact that he was hesitating to get in was proof that the water was hot enough for him. 

Jahar crouched down slowly, gripping the rim of the tub as he lowered his bottom half into the water. He jerked up slightly with an “oooh.” 

I knew what that meant...the hot water had got him in the, ahem, cashews. But not for long. He continued to lower himself into the tub until his bottom, uh, reached bottom. 

He leaned back, closing his eyes and letting his arms dangle towards the floor. 

“Ahhh...” 

That was the “money shot” of bath time – the moment when Jahar was totally chill. Now it was time for me to pour him another glass of pinot noir. He thanked me softly and lounged in the tub, sipping quietly. I poured myself a glass, too, and kneeled by the tub. At this time, he needed nothing from me but quiet. 

He had been waiting for this moment all day – the time when he could casually ponder a glass of wine instead of staring fiercely into the distance, looking for what should not be there. 

I was so honored to be the one to bring peace to this warrior. 

Jahar tilted his head and drained his wineglass. He placed the empty glass on the small table next to the bathtub. That was my cue to start the “active” part of the bath. 

I reached for a natural sponge and a half-used bar of soap – Caswell-Massey almond and aloe soap, to be exact. Ever since I bought a single bar at a gift shop in town, Jahar would not wash with anything else. We now had a tall stack of boxes of three in our cupboard. Yes, they cost far more than Ivory soap at the supermarket. But the silky, creamy lather on his skin...and my skin...and _our_ skin, when we were in the tub together...made it worth the price. 

I rubbed the soap into the sponge until the magical lather appeared. I started scrubbing Jahar’s feet – where, because of walking miles in heavy boots, his skin was toughest. Then I scrubbed his calves...his knees...his thighs...his hips, including the places that only his doctor and I got to see...his chest...his arms...all the way up to his chin. 

Then, I turned on the tap and filled a small green porcelain pitcher with warm water. Jahar bent his head forward, and I poured the water over his head and shoulders. 

“Oh, _yeahhh.”_ He dug it, all right. 

I repeated the process, only this time his head went back. Both ways, his hair got a drenching. When I was done, he shook the water drops off his hair the way a wet dog would. I got a little wet, too, but I didn’t care. 

I had friends who accused me of spoiling Jahar – “Do you put his toothpaste on the brush for him, too?” – but I liked it as much as he did. Besides, those same friends were often guilty of bitching at their partners for “offenses” like leaving the toilet seat up. 

Jahar kissed my lips. 

“I’m gonna rinse off now, baby.” 

“I’ll be waiting for you...in the bedroom.” 

I got off the floor and retreated to the bedroom, closing the bathroom door behind me. Jahar always concluded his baths with a brief shower, in order to get all the soap off his skin. 

Once in the bedroom, I turned on the space heater and lit the candles on the nightstand with a torch. Then, I took a spray bottle filled with rose-scented water – actually, plain water which I’d added a few rose petals to – and sprayed it a few feet over the bed. The water came out misty, so it wouldn’t get the bed too damp...but the scent would linger, and that was what I wanted. 

I changed out of my burgundy dress into a cream-colored satin nightgown with white lace trim. This nightgown was extra-special...it was what I wore on our wedding night. Our actual wedding was a simple courthouse ceremony; I wore a white off-the-hangar dress and he wore the same black suit he did at senior prom...but in the little bed-and-breakfast room where we stayed for our honeymoon, oh, did I want to be sexy. And Jahar appreciated it...judging by the sliver of time my nightgown stayed _on_. 

That pretty boy-man wanted to show how much he loved his new bride...all night long. And I mean _all night_...my lady-parts fluttered at the memory. 

I sat down on the bed...to wait. 

I heard the bathroom door open. Jahar came out wearing his bathrobe. He turned into the main area of the house. 

I knew what he was doing. He could not retreat to the bedroom until he knew that the house was fully secure. He checked the windows and closed the curtains; he checked the front and back doors to make sure they were locked; he armed the alarm. 

Two more security measures that we only spoke of once, and that I would not forget: another assault rifle was under the bed, and a loaded .45 was in the nightstand dresser on Jahar’s side, which was the side closest to the bedroom door. 

The bedroom was where the two of us were most vulnerable...and that was why it had arms close at hand. 

I would not think of that any more tonight. 

Through the bedroom door, I saw the lights go off one by one as Jahar finished his inspection of each room. Finally, the only light within the house came from the three candles beside the bed. (The porch light outside remained on.) 

He finally entered the bedroom. His eyes widened at the transformation I had achieved. 

“Wow.” He smiled and sniffed the air. “Roses here, too.” He sat down on the bed next to me. 

“Who doesn’t like roses?” 

“Only an uncivilized beast.” 

Jahar’s face grew serious after the word “beast” fell from his lips. 

“Beasts. Fuck, I know them only too damn well. When I go out there, I see how ugly the world can get. I see creatures with no hearts, no souls, just a relentless drive to kill and devour human flesh. When I come in here, I see what’s wonderful about the world – warmth, good food, and the softness and sweetness of a woman who loves me.” 

He turned to face me. I saw three candle flames reflected in each of his brown eyes. 

“I wouldn’t be human anymore if I didn’t have you to come home to.” 

The last word ended on my lips. Jahar’s long, strong arms drew me into an embrace, and into a kiss that made me shiver in the wake of the untamed desire behind it. I could feel his thighs tense next to mine. 

_It’s going to be good tonight._

When he released my lips, he whispered, 

“Let’s make some sweetness tonight.” 

His hand reached for the edge of my nightgown. I couldn’t tell what warmed my skin more – the air flowing from the space heater or Jahar’s hungry gaze. 

He lifted my nightgown over my head and tossed it aside. He moved even closer, his hands sliding up my back and into my hair. The smell of his clean skin, overlaid with notes of rose and almond, tickled my nose. He kissed me harder now, the kisses of a man who not only knew what he wanted but knew he was going to get it. 

My own body got ready for him. The soft pink petals between my legs swelled and stiffened; the walls of the little tunnel dripped with dew, yearning for its boon companion. 

Jahar slipped his robe off his shoulders. The candlelight gifted his skin with the color of fresh golden honey. By day, his skin was the color of creamy milk; the juxtaposition was wholly appropriate. 

Naked now, he came at me with greater urgency, his two hands seeming to be six, his torso leaning forward into mine, bringing us into the horizontal. The back of my head sank into one of the pillows, and he came down with me. 

“I want you,” he hissed. “I want you _now._ ” 

In every marriage came times for sweet professions of love...and times for frank declarations of want. In the blog post that inspired my policy, the writer insisted: “A husband’s wanting, when a wife indulges it, is the soil from which lasting love grows.” 

Jahar wanted me, and he would have me, because I wanted him to have me. That was the law of Jaharland, which I both enforced and obeyed. 

I opened my thighs to him, and he got right in between, his penis streaking pre-orgasmic moisture onto my belly. I reached my hand down to help him inside, but he’d already taken control, grabbing himself and rubbing the head against my opening. 

“Oh, yes.” He pushed his pelvis downward, and his penis filled me up until the hairs of his scrotum tickled my perineum. “Ohhh, _yesss...”_

“Jahar,” I whispered as I quivered and tightened around him. No matter how many times he entered me – and by now, I’d long ago lost count – each time felt like the first. 

A tiny vestige of fear sped up my heartbeat – a fear inevitably inherited though the eons when the human female, in order to propagate the race, made herself vulnerable to a male who could hurt her – or worse. But greater than fear was trust...and love. The act of surrendering so completely to my husband was a ride of pure joy for my body and soul. 

Jahar’s golden body lay upon me like a gift, his breath roaring into my ear, his fingers clenching my softness, his penis deep down inside...taking me. Taking me completely. 

As was his right in Jaharland. 

I yielded to the impulse to open my legs wider. It was feeling good for me, not only because he stroked my sensitive walls, but because his pubic hair caressed the tender bud above my opening. I loved these feelings; I wanted to come. 

I understood that wasn’t the point. I could never be completely satisfied until Jahar was satisfied. 

“You like that?” He smiled down at me. “I hear you moaning. You want me to go harder, girl?” 

_“Go harder”...Oh, Jahar, you’re going to drive me wild here!_

“Oh, yes...please.” 

“Please what?” He arched his eyebrows playfully. 

“Please...go _harder.”_

“Fuck, yeah.” 

And he did...go harder...much _harder_...until I arched my back and groaned as he pushed me into orgasmic paradise. Jahar looked down at me and grinned with well-earned pride. 

“Oh, girl...oh, yeah...I feel you...in my heart...in my soul...in my chest...in my blood...in my balls...” 

He whispered more words after that, but they were unintelligible because a wave of climax took over his body. His muscles from throat to feet tensed as the first spurt of ejaculation came on. 

_“Ohhhhhhhhh!”_

That was the sound I had waited for all day, the beautifully erotic sound which encompassed what Jaharland was all about. 

Only when Jahar was free of fear and hurt could he make that sound. Only when he was totally unconcerned about the world outside. Only when I had taken care of him...completely. 

_My Jahar. That is why I’m here._

His lips pressed against my forehead. His body relaxed, his erection slowly retreated from my depths. The salty aroma of earned perspiration now coated the rose and the almond. 

“Uhhh.” He rolled off of me and grasped the edge of the comforter, tugging it upward a little. If it had been any colder, we would have gotten out of bed to put on flannel pajamas. Tonight, in the middle of fall, the comforter would hold on to our coital warmth and keep us toasty. 

“I’m going to sleep.”Jahar stretched, raising his arms over his head and wiggling his toes. “Like a log.” 

Those words relieved me. He’d had a touch of insomnia all week, rooted in a nightmare about a giant snake chewing off his arm. If he slept well tonight, he’d put a dent in his sleep debt. 

We’d both sleep well, with the weekend stretching ahead of us. Perhaps we’d wake up and have a waffle breakfast, then spend most of the day in town, shopping and hanging out. Perhaps we’d meet friends at the bar called the Olive Branch, or eat apple pie for lunch at Jessy’s Café. Jahar liked to eat out on weekends (and so did I), so we could end up at Frankie’s Steakhouse for dinner...Frankie’s didn’t advertise it, but it gave discounts to patrollers. We’d each have a steak and syrah, but only one glass each because we would want to get safely home and then get intoxicated on each other...all night long. 

“Thank you, my love.” Jahar stroked my hair sleepily with one hand. “Thank you for making home a place to count on...and yearn for.” 

“Thank you, Jahar, for taking care of me. For taking care of our community. For being the great man that you are.” 

“Oh...” He pulled me closer to him and kissed my lips softly and reverently. “I love you, my dear wife.” 

“I love you, too, my precious Jahar.” 

That was the heart of Jaharland...love, given and expressed freely. We could stay there forever. 

We _would._


End file.
